


I Would Not Ask

by Qpenguin98



Series: Better to love than to have and to hold [6]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesty, Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, TAZ Amnesty, now adjusted with mama's canon name!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qpenguin98/pseuds/Qpenguin98
Summary: Indrid Cold doesn’t dream too often, but when he does it’s usually weird twists of the present and the future.





	I Would Not Ask

Indrid Cold doesn’t dream too often, but when he does it’s usually weird twists of the present and the future. Most times it doesn’t mean anything, which is a striking difference to visions while he’s awake. They’re usually vague, leaving him unsettled or contented with underlying emotions that he doesn’t like to sort through. He usually gets a main person or a main place and an activity, a happening.

He gets them more often when he’s around people, and he hasn’t really been around people the last fifteen or so years. Dreams weren’t that big of an issue around Barclay and at the Lodge, but sometimes they happened and he was never really sure what to do about them. Sleep was the only time his brain is quiet and having that interrupted is disorienting.

This dream is more than disorienting.

He wakes up sweating, glasses shoved into his face. He hasn’t had a dream in a long, long time, had practically forgotten what they felt like, but they so rarely felt like this. There’s this terror gripping his throat, ice in his veins. Nightmare, his brain helpfully supplies, but even nightmare feels wrong. He can’t remember anything distinctive about the dream, nothing that would grip at his heart like this. The world seems hazy, still distant in his brain, everything a little off kilter. He throws a hand out to hold onto Barclay, but of course he isn’t there. They may be talking again, but they aren’t there yet. He’d forgotten what time it was, what year, what decade.

He latches onto that, and then suddenly he can’t shake the feeling that the dream was about Barclay. And maybe, this time, maybe it was more than a dream, maybe it was some kind of warning. A premonition, trying to tell him he’s in danger. It shouldn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense, but it’s right. It has to be right. Barclay’s in danger, or he will be soon, and he’s sitting here in his bed with fear wrapped around him like a blanket.

Indrid stands so suddenly that it makes him dizzy, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because now, now Barclay could be  _dying_  and he’s doing nothing about it.

He shoves shoes on his feet and wraps a stray scarf around his neck and bundles up as best he can before he books it out of his trailer. It’s a walk, but there’s nothing in his path, no people in the way at… he doesn’t really know what time it is, but it’s late. Or early. It doesn’t matter, no one’s awake. And that’s all the worse. Something horrible could be happening to him and no one would be awake to stop it.

Breathing is a little difficult right now, and the cold seeps in through his clothes and chills him to the bone, but he’s needed. Barclay needs him. He’s the only one that has any inclination of what’s going on.

There’s a future pressing behind his eyes but he ignores it. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want the possibilities of failure, he needs success, he can’t die,  _he can’t die_ , not like this, with no preamble in the middle of the night.

It feels like an eternity before the Lodge comes into sight, all wood siding and green trim, sign a bit crooked above the entrance. He doesn’t hesitate before slamming a hand on the door, effectively waking up someone. There’s silence, and then he knocks again, harder this time.

Creaking comes from behind the door, and he knocks again, forceful, daring to be ignored. He doesn’t have time. There isn’t any  _time_. Barclay could be dying and he’s doing nothing standing behind this door.

The door creaks open, eye peeking out before widening in surprise and opening the door all the way. Maddy stands there in her night clothes, shotgun in hand, hair pulled back.

“Indrid?” She asks him, clearly confused.

“Where’s Barclay?” He says anxiously, pushing past her into the Lodge. There’s no one else there with them except… no wait. Aubrey’s at the top of the stairs, peeking down to see what the commotion is about.

“In his— in his room? What the hell’re you doin’ here at two in the morning, Indrid?”

“I don’t have time,” he says shortly before rushing up the stairs. Aubrey waves at him tiredly, brows furrowed. He doesn’t do much but wave her off, steering himself down the halls like he never left. Barclay’s room is the far left alcove, down a corner. He reaches the door, shut of course. Tries the handle, locked like always. Pounds a hand on the door.

“Barclay,” he says, voice a little louder than it probably should be. “Open the door.”

The shuffling noises from the room are slower, less calculated. A lock clicks and the door opens, Barclay’s head popping out. He looks surprised and tired and confused, but okay. He’s fine. He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s alive and breathing right in front of him.

“Indrid?” He asks, sleep thickening his voice. Indrid draws in a shaky breath, clasps his hands together. He can’t feel his fingers. He can’t feel his anything. His body is empty and he’s stuck staring.

“Hey,” Barclay says. “Indrid, what are you doing here? I can’t do anything for you if you don’t say anything.”

“I,” he says, mouth trying desperately to form words. He isn’t touching him. This could be fake, a continuation of the dream while Barclay dies a horrible death in the very room behind him. Barclay glances behind him, mouths something to someone, and sighs. Then he grabs his shoulder and pulls him into his room, shutting the door behind him.

He raises a shaky hand to touch at where Barclay’s arm is, feeling the skin, the firmness and the give of it, feels a bone under his thumb, feels the warmth searing his fingers. It still doesn’t feel right. This could all still be a dream, some strange horrible dream.

“What’s wrong?” Barclay’s voice is soft and his other hand reaches out and hold his other arm. “Did you walk here? You’re freezing.”

“This is a dream,” Indrid breathes out. He doesn’t deserve soft, but it’s what he wants. He’s certain this is fake, Barclay could still be dying in the real world, alone and apart from everyone.

“It’s not,” he says, but he’s wrong. He’s wrong. Indrid can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter, he can’t die in a dream. Barclay’s dying and he won’t wake up. His vision swims a bit and he blinks a couple times, anxious, frantic.

He needs to do something. He needs to wake up. Dreams, he thinks, what can and can’t happen in dreams. Pain wakes you up, doesn’t it?

Pulling himself out of Barclay’s grip, he smacks a hand out at the wall, knuckles rapping against the wood painfully. It’s a false response from his brain. Pain doesn’t exist this presently in dreams, at least he doesn’t think so. His imagination is creating things for him. He does it again. He needs to wake up, he needs to help him.

“Hey, hey hey no, we’re not doing that,” Barclay says, taking his wrist in his hand just as he goes to hit it again. He tries to jerk it back out of his grip but he holds tight. Barclay always was stronger than him, and his subconscious isn’t letting him forget that, even if he’s asleep.

“I need to wake up,” Indrid says desperately. He pushes at Barclay’s hand uselessly. “You’re dying. You’re in danger. I need to wake up. Please,  _please_  just let me wake up.”

“I’m right here,” he says, taking his other hand. He’s gentle, he’s too gentle. They’ve both hurt each other too much for him to be this gentle. “You’re awake, Indrid. We’re both awake right now.”

“No, no, no no we’re not. I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He can’t breathe, and maybe if he passes out from a lack of air he’ll finally wake up. “You’re dying.”

“I’m not— are you looking ahead right now? Are you seeing the future or is this something different?”

“I can’t,” he wobbles out. He can’t look forward and see him dead for certain. He can’t do that. His face feels wet. “Don’t make me do that.”

Barclay seems to wrestle with himself before pulling them both onto the floor, the cold wood chilling him further. Sensation doesn’t exist in dreams. But Indrid just must be having the worst luck with this one. He pulls him in closer, keeps his arms in close to his body so he can’t hit the wall or the floor anymore, but Indrid need to wake up. He needs to. He digs his hails into the flesh of his palms, wishes desperately that the sting is enough the snap him out of this. It isn’t.

One of Barclay’s hands rests on his head, rubbing over the hair absently. Indrid shifts halfheartedly and gets nothing for it. He drops his head against his shoulder, and he knows it’s not real, knows he’s wasting time in taking small comforts that won’t matter once he wakes up, but he can’t help himself. If he wakes up and Barclay is dead, he’ll at least have had this.

“I know you don’t dream much,” Barclay says into the too still air. “But I do. And this isn’t a dream, Indrid. You’re awake and I’m awake and it’s fine. Focus, okay? You can feel things, and time is moving at a regular pace. What does it smell like? Swallow. Breathe. You’re awake.”

He feels a shiver run down his spine, a minute detail that he’s fairly certain doesn’t affect him in dreams or premonitions, and inhales. He uncurls his nails from his palm and lays his hand flat on Barclay’s chest. He can feel him breathing, can feel the warmth seeping into his still too cold skin, can feel a heartbeat under his fingertips, and as unsettling as that feeling usually is, he relishes in it.

Barclay’s shirt smells like that small brand detergent that Maddy and her mom always bought, but there’s something distinctly Barclay underneath it that always made borrowing his sweaters better. He swallows thickly and it isn’t distant feeling like he expects it to be. He can feel his throat and his tongue and his jaw and everything involved in the action. He counts on his fingers silently, and time doesn’t spin out around him and throw him somewhere entirely new. He presses his hand to his chest a little firmer and breathes in deeper and closes his eyes.

It takes a moment for him to recalibrate, but he comes back to himself eventually. His hands feel real and he can see the future finally, a very tame vision. No one’s dying, least of all Barclay. He’s been awake this entire time, ignoring the future because he thought it would show him something that even his dreams didn’t give him.

He’s awake.

He allows himself a moment of staying there, keeping his hand pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth and the heartbeat, of breathing in the scent of Barclay and his always clean clothes. Of having this moment in his life before he makes himself go back to the trailer.

Eventually, though, he picks his head up, opens his eyes. Barclay lets him go, sits back on his hands, watches him carefully.

“I,” he starts, and he stops, scrubbing at his face, displacing the glasses for a moment. His eyes are leaking and he’d love it if that could stop. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was… I assume that was unpleasant for both of us.”

“Are you okay?” Barclay asks, and his voice is so soft, so genuine. It hurts.

“I’m fine. I haven’t had a dream in a while and it was disorienting. I’m sorry I came and woke you up.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Barclay says. He looks conflicted for a moment. “You’re right, it wasn’t pleasant, but not for the reason you’re thinking. I just… I haven’t seen you that scared in a long time.”

“It wasn’t even the dream,” Indrid says before he can stop himself. He feels full, ready to burst, and he needs to let it out or he’ll drown in it. “It was a nightmare, I think. Possibly. I don’t remember the dream. But I woke up and my brain latched onto the idea of you and you— you not being there and it wouldn’t let go.”

“So no terrible endings for me in the foreseeable future?” He asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“Nothing I can see,” Indrid says, because he can’t take that lightness right now. Hos heart is calming down but his eyes are still leaking and he’d love it if he could stop crying. His breath hitches and his shoulders jump for a horrible second before he schools it down. Barclay looks at him and he’s so visibly worried that Indrid has to look away.

“You don’t have to leave,” He says, curling forward, putting his hands in his lap. “You can stay the rest of the night if you want to.”

“You don’t have to offer that,” he says, staring at his hands. He could do without another breakdown, thank you very much, body.

“I know.” Indrid chances a glance and his eyes are kind. “But I want you to. I don’t feel real good about you going back off into the night like this.”

“Oh, I’d be fine,” he says, but it’s a hollow statement. He’d jump at the chance to stay here, but he can’t seem too desperate.

“Come on,” he says, standing. He offers his hand to help Indrid up and he takes it. “Let’s go to bed.”

Barclay’s bed is big enough to fit them both comfortably, and now is one of the times he regrets having massive glasses as his disguise. It’s not quite safe enough to get out of disguise, not with Agent Stern in the vicinity, but he can deal.

Barclay is warm and solid and curling up next to him after years of not feels like coming home. An arm comes around him, curling over his back and pulling him closer. The sheets smell like him and he closes his eyes again. He’s still reeling a little bit, still terrified of the prospect of waking up and finding him dead under the blankets. But for now he’s in his arms, pressed against him, heart loosening in his ribs enough for him to breathe properly.

Tomorrow they’ll either deal with this or ignore it, it’s not quite set yet. But Aubrey will tease him relentlessly either way and he slink back to his trailer later in the day.

Relaxing is easier, no matter how long it’s been since he’s done this. It feels like comfort and home and everything he’s wanted for over a decade. He can think and not think and listen as Barclay finally falls into sleep again, light snores interrupting the quiet around them. And when Indrid finally falls back asleep, he doesn’t dream.

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh hewwo, im back with some barcold again. gotta love my niche little ship corner, which now has one more member! now there are two of us.  
> i tried so hard to make this longer, but it would not work so here we have this.  
> i am very tired! i hope you all enjoy this, and please comment if you did!


End file.
